


and comfort is only yours to give

by bellezza



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Gen, Platonic Female/Female Relationships, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2015-01-09
Packaged: 2018-03-06 19:54:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3146621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellezza/pseuds/bellezza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She is going to die out here, a thousand miles from sanctuary and outside the Maker’s sight, and they will never find her body to burn it.</p>
<p>Small "In Your Heart Shall Burn" character study.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and comfort is only yours to give

 

The wind sounds like a dying wail. 

It carries with it the cold, and that tears through her like knives. Her clothes were warm in Haven, warm on the coast and in the marshes, but they weren’t made for crossing ice-crusted mountains. The wind blows, and cold stabs through to her bones; the air is still, and the cold seeps beneath her collar and into her skin like a demon's whispering.

She is going to die out here, a thousand miles from sanctuary and outside the Maker’s sight, and they will never find her body to burn it.

A sob rattles in her chest; the tears gathering in on her lashes freeze there without falling.

_For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water.  
_ _As the moth sees light and goes toward flame,  
_ _She should see fire and go towards Light._

 _But what of ice, Lady?_ Did the Maker’s bride ever walk through the bitterest cold and fear He had abandoned her? So bitter cold, it almost burns. She could conjure a flame to warm herself, but the energy she’d expend just keeping it fed would unmake the entire exercise.

One more step. One more step, and then when she takes that, she tells herself: another.

 _Maker, though the darkness comes upon me,  
_ _I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm.  
_ _I shall endure._

And the wind keeps howling in her ears.

  
 

 

 

The campfire kindles hope in her breast, and for the first time in what feels like ages she starts to think there might be…something other than cold death awaiting her. What, she doesn’t know.

Another step. Another. The snow is so heavy, thick as it is; lifting her foot is a struggle, and putting it down again feels like the mountain is sucking her in. Maybe it is. The Avvar believe the mountain is alive, its anima a god. But Andraste prayed to the Mountain-Father and heard no answer until the Maker spoke.

Lyra prays to the Maker and hears no answer from Him. She’s a fraud after all, she’s no one’s Herald, and this is her penitence for pretending. It feels so long ago that the heat of flames tearing Haven asunder scalded the back of her neck.

Stopping is dangerous, but she does it anyway to catch her breath. Her lips feel cracked, probably dry with blood. Each inhale twists in her chest painfully; every exhale is a relief. A bad sign, she recalls through the fog of exhaustion clouding her mind; she won’t last much longer at this rate.

She presses on. The mountain slopes sharply upward, and ahead the path curves into a deep crevice and out of her sight. There seem to be—lights, flickering. But no. She’s hallucinating. Or if she’s seeing light, it’s the Maker’s Light. Perhaps she’s not damned at all; perhaps He’s welcoming her to His side at last.

Then she hears a shout, and she’s not hallucinating that, she can’t be. “There! It’s her!” Cullen’s voice, his audible relief breaking over her like a wave on shore. He runs into her line of sight, Cassandra at his side and a handful of soldiers close at their heels.

“Thank the Maker!” Cassandra cries, and at the sound of her voice, at the sight of them, Lyra falls to her knees in the snow. She’s felt—too numb, but raw, and Cassandra’s hands on her are a shock of warmth.

What little willpower Lyra has scraped together to struggle up this path flees her, and she falls into Cassandra’s arms with a quiet sob. The Seeker stiffens, then unspools, and gently helps her to her feet. A little guilty and a little glad, Lyra lets Cassandra keep her weight.

“You look half-frozen, but you will not die, I think." Her breath is hot on Lyra’s icy cheek as she speaks; they’re of a similar height. “Come. We’ve established a camp for the survivors, with a great fire, blankets, and hot food."

Cullen hovers at Lyra’s other side; he steps closer now, gloved hands reaching out to steady her at her elbow but not touching. Without quite meaning to, Lyra sags in Cassandra’s arms, and Cullen closes that last little distance to brace her.

“I’m fully capable of carrying her myself, Commander,” Cassandra bites out.

“I realize that,” Cullen says, but his hand doesn’t leave her. Heat radiates outward from that point of contact. “She needs a healer."

“I know what she needs. You sound like a mother hen."

“ _I_  sound like a mother hen?” Cullen protests, indignant. “If you could hear yourself right now—"

“Enough. We need to get her to camp."

With the sound of them bickering and their warm, solid strength encircling her from either side, Lyra slips into blackness.

 

 

 

 

She wakes to the feeling of someone’s fingers combing through her hair, and the sound of gentle singing.

For a moment she forgets where she is and what’s happened. She’s ten years old and at the Circle again, Estina’s touch gentling her as she wakes from a tearful slumber.

But the song. It’s not one she recalls ever hearing, and it _pulls_ at her. Her eyes flutter open to find Leliana sitting beside her camp bed, her own eyes closed as she sings. The words of the song aren’t even in the common tongue—elven, maybe? Whatever they are, whatever they mean, they sound beautiful. Leliana has that kind of voice, bright and clear, and to hear it a second time without the chorus of the other faithful is like a secret blessing.

_This is the woman who the Hero of Ferelden loves_ , she thinks with a touch of awe.

Leliana must feel her stirring, because when her song ends she opens her eyes fully and looks down at her and smiles. “You’re awake. How do you feel now?"

Awful, is the answer. Her body aches, her mouth feels dry, and her lips sting. She hardly feels holy, or sacred, or blessed. But she only says, “I’m doing better now."

Leliana’s smile widens. “Liar."

Lyra’s cheeks warm. “You would know, wouldn’t you?” she retorts, but it’s well-meant, and gets a laugh from the other woman.

“I would indeed. And how are you feeling after what happened out there?"

She means the singing faithful pressing in around her, offering up their hearts to her mercy. Remembering it overwhelms her. In that moment she’d felt so small, so lost, and so conflictingly warm at the same time. They loved her, she’d realized; that’s what their faith meant, what their loyalty was worth. Her, a mage.

She never would have dreamed her life could come to this; no one could.

Instead of answering she says, "May I ask you something?"

"Of course," Leliana agrees readily. "My lady Herald, you may ask me anything."

"What was that song? I didn't recognize it, but it sounds elven."

"That is because it is." Leliana reaches one last time to brush Lyra's hair away from her face, then withdraws her hands to fold them in her lap. "An old elven funeral song. It was sung at my mother's funeral, and has always brought me comfort."

"And you're singing it to _me_?” She’s hardly on her deathbed; the idea seems almost perverse.

Leliana laughs again. "I _am_ Orlesian. We believe sadness to be beautiful, and beauty is a comfort. And anyway, it sounds pretty."

Such a simplistic reason, and it makes Lyra smile. She gathers the blankets into her hands and holds them tight.

The door flap twitches aside, and Cullen's head pokes in. He clears his throat. "I'm sorry to intrude. I only came to see how you're feeling."

"Well enough for visitors," Leliana declares as she stands. "Come take my spot. I should go check on the pilgrims."

Cullen hesitates, shifting his weight lightly from one foot to the other. “I wouldn’t want to disturb—"

“Oh, hush. You wouldn’t want to leave the Herald all by herself after she struggled alone up a mountain, would you?"

That silences him, and he looks abashed as he merely ducks his head in surrender and steps into the tent. Leliana smiles brightly up at him as she brushes past, and then the doors fall closed between them and Lyra is alone with a templar.

_A former templar_ , she reminds herself, chiding. They’ve moved past the initial strainedness of their first few meetings, when wariness was a wall between them. Now it’s begun to melt away, leaving an awkward silence in its place.

He’d looked for her after the town went under; he and Cassandra had not given up faith in her survival, even when _she_ had. Since they found her Cassandra has stopped to check on her at least seven times in the past fifteen hours, and she’s caught sight of Cullen hovering near her tent in concern on more than one occasion.

If someone had told her a year ago that a seeker and a templar would be the two people she’d meet to fuss over her most since she was a little girl, she’d have smiled politely and prayed to the Maker for their wellbeing. She’d never had cause to hate them as other mages had, but she’d never felt quite as if she could trust them, either. Now she’s beginning to see that they care, not just about what she can do, but who she is.

Her skin tingles—recovering from the cold still, probably. She pulls the blanket up a little higher and smooths it out beneath her fingers.

Cullen nudges Leliana’s stool a more respectable distance away from her bed and sits. “Are you recovering well?"

On impulse, she wiggles her fingers, and then her toes. “Ten fingers, ten toes,” she says, and feels her cheeks flush when she realizes what a childish response that must sound like. “I mean—yes, thank you."

He smiles. It’s a very nice smile—indulgent, a little unguarded. “I’m glad to hear it. I was—I mean, all of us, the Inquisition—we were…very worried. Your survival means a lot to a lot of people."

She remembers the faithful again closing in around her, their hands outstretched for some benediction, their voices lifting her spirit to the dawn sky. However impossible, she’d felt both small and insignificant, and yet greater than herself at the same time. Like who she was mattered less than what she meant to them, and what she meant was the world. 

She’s trembling again, she realizes, and tries to exercise control over her body.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Cullen asks quietly, and his concern is almost too much.

She breathes in, breathes in, breathes in, and exhales slowly.

“I will be,” she tells him.

  
 

 

 

_Draw your last breath, my friends,_  
 _Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky.  
_ _Rest at the Maker's right hand,  
_ _And be Forgiven._


End file.
